The fourth day dawned dimly through fog, and the blanket was so soaked with dew that he woke riddled with fever. That hostile place was tearing at his life; he wanted to die in Huérmeces. He gathered all his strength, making use even of his fevered spasms to get himself moving. After carefully folding the blan- ket to show that he was grateful, he put the water and the boiled potatoes back into the bag in which the villagers had brought them and set off for his town beyond the mountains, which hid their ferocity among the clouds. He started climbing toward Somosierra. Those mountains divide Spain in two, and now it occurs to us that the harrowing effort of crossing them was another way of defying everything that separates, of trying to be on both sides at once. Dazed by fever, Alegría struggled to find his way, climbing the slope at a dis- tance from the road so as not to be seen by those travelling along it-mostly military convoys, transporting supplies, soldiers, arms, and all that is required to keep an occupied territory under con- trol. Like other wars, this one had come to an official end but would never tnùy be resolved. Civilian vehicles were few and far between; the ones that did appear had likely been requisitioned. Alegria knew that anyone who could move freely was a potential enemy. Not that those who re- mained in one place could be counted on as allies. What side can a soldier choose when he has simultaneously won and lost the war? And yet, although he wanted to hide, he dared not stray too far from the road, because he feared that his strength might fail him, in which case he planned to lie down on the verge in the hope that his body would be found and given a Christian burial, or at least not left to feed the wolves and wild dogs that he had seen on the prowl, patiently await- ing the end of his pilgrimage. The res- urrection of the flesh, he thought, re- quired a certain tidiness on the part of the deceased, but all he had left was re- volting, humiliating decay. His stench was so strong that it could not be ig- nored, despite the heather, the rock- roses, the primroses, and the thyme. These precautions slowed his prog- ress. The Journey lasted three days, on the first of which he ate the potatoes and drank the water. Mter that, in the cold of the mountains, he had only the bag to wrap around himself at night and to protect the raw wound on his head from the fierce midday sun. Finally, he reached Somosierra, a village of granite and slate that would have no charm if it weren't for the sur- rounding landscape. He arrived at eve- ning, with the sun setting behind him, and that dense, slanted light afforded him a kind of cover, allowing him to approach the tollhouse, which had been converted into a checkpoint. There they were, the soldiers of the army that had won the final battle, with the uni- forms, boots, jackets, and arms that he had distributed for so many years. He felt neither nostalgia nor remorse, only sadness. For hours, he watched those figures, blurred by his myopia. When darkness fell, the soldiers built fires to light the road and keep them warm. He observed a perfunctory changing of the guard, ex- ecuted with a lack of enthusiasm that bespoke boredom rather than victory. That sight must have been what in- spired the following reflection, recorded on a scrap of paper found in his pocket on the day of his second, and definitive, death, when he blew his life out with a rifle snatched from one of his guards. "Are these listless, weary soldiers the winners of the war? No, all they want is to go home, where instead of getting a hero's welcome they'll be strangers to life, cut off from what was once theirs, and over time they will sink into defeat. They will become one with those who lost the war, separated only by the stigma of mutual bitterness. And, like the los- ers, they will come to fear the real victor, who defeated both the enemy army and his own. Only a few dead men will be regarded as the heroes of this war." Fever, hunger, and disgust at his own state must have quelled these thoughts, and even his memory, for, gathering what little strength he had left, dragging himself along-at this point he could not even walk-he slowly approached the checkpoint, oblivious of the soldiers' shock and repulsion at the sight of that crawling bundle of rags. Between sobs, he said, "I'm one f " o you. . (Translated, from the Spanish, by Chris Andrews.) 617.855.3570 pavilion@mclean.org www.mclean.harvard.edu Unparalleled psychiatric evaluation and treatment. Unsurpassed discretion and service. Consistently ranked the nation's top psychiatric hospital, Mclean is an affiliate of Harvard Medical School and Massachusetts General Hospital, and a member of Partners HealthCare. The ODDEST MOMENTS ARE æ æ THE most DELICIOUS. " . i:.t.:r." . 12 '. ' - 1 11 1" ' L \' 1';-' '10 () - " ., /,," > rJ] -. o 9 . .II1,_ : ' · 'r- Ii iO'; ""; i J' \ f J"' "" r,' ",: " - '.; z .r I .j,"d. _ u HENDRfc'x's _ " . 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